


Nothing Good Ever Comes of a Phone Call After 2:00 AM

by quandong_crumble



Series: It's 3:00 AM, I must be lonely [2]
Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: 3:00 AM Phone Calls, Canonical Character Death, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quandong_crumble/pseuds/quandong_crumble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhodey gets a 3:00 AM phone call from Tony Stark. He does what any best friend would do, and rushes to his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Good Ever Comes of a Phone Call After 2:00 AM

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on the MCU tie-in comic _Iron Man 2: Public Identity_ , hence the timing of Howard and Maria Stark's deaths is a little different to the usual accepted movieverse canon. If you haven't had a chance to check out this comic, please do... the panels referencing Howard and Maria's deaths are truly heartbreaking.
> 
> This is the second of what is currently four (possibly more) unrelated fics written as a response to the prompt:
> 
> "It's 3:00 AM and I'm calling you because I don't know who else to talk to."
> 
> Prompt and beta both lovingly supplied by [Saral_Hylor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Saral_Hylor/pseuds/Saral_Hylor), the enabler :)

The skies are clear, the sun high behind him and slightly to the right, the glare providing good cover from ground-based observation. James Rhodes grips the yoke, feeling the power of the jet vibrate through his hands and up his arms. He keeps his shoulders loose and supple and brings the nose of the jet around, angling for his target destination. The radio is silent in his ear but that’s okay, he knows his mission. The first target appears on the horizon and he brings the jet in low, angles his approach just right, and preps the first missile.

Alarms blare and his instruments spiral out of control. The yoke shudders and wrenches in his grip as the jet’s nose suddenly points at the ground. He has to eject, he can’t pull up, the ground’s too close and—

Jim sits bolt upright in bed, panting with relief. Just a dream. It takes his sleep-fogged brain a moment to realise that the alarm is still blaring. No, not an alarm, it’s the phone in the hallway, he realises with a sigh of relief. Then he checks the glowing red numbers on his alarm clock and panics again. It’s an old saying in his family, nothing good ever comes from a phone call after 2:00 AM. The phone keeps blaring its atonal jangle as he fights with the sweat-damp sheets and struggles out of bed, only for it to stop just as he reaches the door.

Jim stops too, calming the panicked racing of his heart with deep breaths. Without the blood rushing in his ears he can hear his mother’s soft voice coming from the hall, too low to make out individual words. He scrubs his nails through the short, tight curls of his hair, scratching at his scalp, then pulls open the door.

His mom looks drawn and tired in the dim light leaking out of her bedroom. She cradles receiver with both hands, and he can read the tension from the angles of her grip through to the line of her jaw.

“I’ll get him for you,” she murmurs into the receiver.

 _Dad_ , is his first thought. _Something’s happened to Dad_. But no, mom doesn’t look nearly distraught enough for that. She presses the phone against her shoulder to muffle her voice and turns to face him.

“James, it’s your friend, Tony,” she says softly. “He sounds very... distressed.”

 _‘Distressed’ had better not be code for drunk,_ he thinks, rather uncharitably considering it’s been months since Tony last drunk-dialled him, while he takes the few steps necessary to reach out and take the receiver from her. She pats him on the arm gently and retreats back into her bedroom, but leaves the door open and the light on for him.

“Tony?” He says into the receiver.

There’s a noise on the other end that sounds for all the world like a muffled sniffle, but Tony’s never been a sad drunk, and he’s only ever called this late while intoxicated and silly.

“Tony, do you have any idea what time it is? What’s up?”

“It’s 3:00 AM and I’m calling you because I don’t know who else to talk to.”

His voice sounds small and quiet, diminished somehow.

“What’s wrong?” Jim asks, and when an answer isn’t immediately forthcoming he continues. “Tony? Has something happened?”

“There... there was an accident,” Tony finally says.

“Are you okay?” Jim says. “What kind of accident? Are you hurt?”

There’s silence on the other end of the line again. His mind flashes a gruesome image of Tony lying bloody and disoriented next to his broken car somewhere.

“Tony?” He prompts again, fear making his voice sharper than he intends. “Talk to me. What kind of accident?”

His mom appears in the doorway, looking concerned. “Is he okay?” She mouths.

“I don’t know,” he mouths back, just as Tony finally answers.

“Not me. I’m fine. Well, I’m not fine but I’m not injured. It was Mom and Dad.”

“Oh shit. How bad is it?” Jim’s mental picture of Tony shifts to one of the young man waiting in an emergency ward.

“They’re dead.”

Jim’s grip tightens on the phone until the plastic creaks ominously under his palm. “Dead?”

There’s another muffled sniffle.

“Where are you?” He asks. He can make the drive to New York, but if Tony’s still in Cambridge he’ll have to try and get a flight first thing in the morning.

“Mansion. I... I don’t know what to do, Rhodey.”

“Wait there, okay? I can be there in two hours.”

“Okay, but... just be careful? Drive safe?”

He hears the click of Tony hanging up the phone and just stands there for a moment, listening to dead air.

“James?” His mom’s voice shakes him out of it.

“I have to go to New York,” he tells her. “Tony’s parents have been killed in some kind of accident. I think he’s all alone and I can’t leave him there like that.”

“No. Of course. That poor boy.” She sighs and rubs her face. “You go pack some things, I’ll make you a coffee and some breakfast for the road. Look after him, James. And for god’s sake, drive carefully.”

Two hours and eighteen minutes later he is directed by the Starks’ butler, Edwin Jarvis, to where Tony is sitting on the floor of Howard Stark’s study. He’s wearing jeans and his oversized MIT hoodie and Jim realises with a start just how _young_ he looks. How young he is, really. Only seventeen and suddenly orphaned, he looks like a little kid in the opulent room.

“Hey,” Jim says. He feels awkward all of a sudden, doesn’t know where to put his hands.

Tony looks up at him with red, dry eyes and manages a weak smile that looks more like a twitch of his lips than anything. “You made it,” he says quietly.

“Always,” Jim reassures him. “Whenever you need.”

Tony slowly gets to his feet, moving far too stiffly for his age. Jim reaches to help him just as he stumbles and winds up with his arms full of grieving teenager. Tony wraps one arm around his waist, clings to his collar with the other hand, and buries his face in Jim’s chest. He’s trembling, Jim can feel it through the arms he has wrapped around Tony’s shoulders, but not crying. He just clings, and Jim rubs his back in what he hopes is a soothing manner.

“Have you slept?” He finally asks.

Tony doesn’t pull back at all, just shakes his head without raising it. He mumbles something that sounds like “I can’t,” into Jim’s chest.

“That’s okay,” he says, but it really isn’t. Jarvis said that Tony got the call at a little before 1:00 AM, and the sun would be coming up in half an hour. He has to be beyond exhausted, and he’ll be inundated with lawyers, business concerns and condolences as soon as the business day officially starts.

“How about something warm to drink, then?” He asks. Even if warm milk doesn’t send them both to sleep for a few hours, it’s got to do some good.

Tony finally pulls back out of the hug and nods. He takes a couple of deep breaths, obviously settling himself. “Yeah, good idea.”

Jim expects Tony to head for the kitchen but he just stands there, passively staring off into the middle distance. Jim sighs and wraps one arm back around his friend and guides him out of the room.

“You’re going to have to tell me when to turn, buddy,” he jokes. “I have no idea where your kitchen is.”

Tony huffs a short breath at him, more of an acknowledgment that he said anything than a laugh. He does pull away, though, and leads Jim down one corridor after another until they reach the kitchen.

It’s almost dark, lit only by the light on the range hood. Jim doesn’t see the elderly butler sitting there in the gloom until Jarvis gets up, scraping his chair against the tiled floor.

“Can I get you boys anything,” he asks.

“I was just going to get Tony some warm milk,” Jim tells him. “If you could just show me where you keep the mugs and the honey...”

“Nonsense,” Jarvis scolds. “I can manage this. You lads take a seat and I’ll whip something up.”

Jim sits at the counter, muttering his thanks. Tony slides a stool as close as possible and sits so that he’s leaning heavily against Jim’s side, head on his shoulder. He watches Jarvis putter around the kitchen, heating milk in a little orange saucepan, whisking in honey and some spices that Jim can’t see well enough in the low light to identify. Tony’s weight against his side gets steadily heavier, and he looks down to see that the teen’s eyes are nearly closed and his face is less pinched-looking than before. He startles a little as Jarvis sets a large mug in front of each of them, just a little flinch.

“This isn’t coffee,” Tony says.

“No,” Jim agrees, “it’s not. Drink it, and if you still can’t sleep after, I will personally go and get you a bucket of coffee from the nearest Starbucks.”

Tony hums a sort of affirmative and takes a sip of the drink. He hums again, this time appreciative, and takes a bigger mouthful. Jim takes a sip of his own drink. The milk is perfect, seasoned with honey, vanilla and maybe cinnamon, he’s not sure, and with the first mouthful he can feel the fatigue settling in his bones. He doesn’t really pay attention to Jarvis moving around the kitchen, just keeps sipping his drink. He can feel Tony doing the same, the movement jostling his side gently every now and then. He lets out a jaw-cracking yawn.

“I’m going to try and get some sleep now, Master Anthony,” Jarvis says quietly. “I hope you’ll be able to do the same. Mister Rhodes looks quite done in. I have made up a guest bed in the room next to yours.”

“G’night, Jarvis,” Tony mumbles.

“Thank you, Jarvis,” Jim says more clearly. “Good night.”

It takes him a while to finish his milk. Jarvis made it hot enough that he can’t gulp it down to start with, having to sip and savour it instead. By the time he’s finished he’s blinking sleepily and wondering where exactly his guest room is. Tony yawns against his shoulder, and when Jim looks down the teen’s eyes are closed.

He briefly, very briefly, considers trying to carry Tony to his room rather than rouse him. He doesn’t know the way well enough, though, and Tony’s last growth spurt left them with only an inch of difference between their heights. There’s no way he’ll be able to carry him without hurting himself.

“Hey, Tony? Let’s get to bed,” he says.

“‘m not asleep,” Tony mumbles.

“Yeah right,” Jim retorts. “You’re practically drooling on my shoulder. Come on, I need you to show me where I’m sleeping.”

It takes a few prods but eventually he gets Tony moving. They leave the mugs on the counter and Jim follows Tony down the hall, trying to memorise how many doors they pass. He’s too tired, though, and he knows he’ll be just as lost in the morning as he is now. Eventually, Tony stops at one door and leans against it, face first.

“This is me, next door’s yours. Bathroom’s three down the hall on the right,” he mutters, gesturing lazily. “G’night, Rhodey.”

Jim waits, but Tony doesn’t open the door for a long moment. Eventually, the teen scrabbles for the handle and half-staggers, half-falls into the room. Jim has seen him like this before at MIT. Hell, there were plenty of nights during projects or before exams where they were both like this, exhausted beyond the ability to look after themselves. He follows Tony into the bedroom. _Just making sure he manages to fall asleep_ in _the bed,_ he tells himself. He leans against the doorframe and watches as Tony shucks his jeans and hoodie and climbs into bed in his tee shirt and briefs. Satisfied, he turns to leave, only to be pulled up short by Tony’s voice behind him.

“Stay?” the teen asks, his voice a little desperate. “Just for a little while? Just ‘til I fall asleep?”

Jim turns back to him, sees how Tony’s shuffled across the bed to make a bit of room, and sighs. He’s so tired, beyond exhausted really, and he just wants to fall into bed for a few hours. But this is Tony, this is his best friend, the kid brother he never had, and Jim has never been good at saying no to him.

“Okay,” he says. He toes his sneakers off and leaves them in the doorway, along with his socks, and then sits on the bed next to Tony, wedging a pillow between his back and the headboard. Tony curls towards him, not quite touching, and sighs.

“We argued,” he says. It’s almost a whisper. “Before they left, I mean. Dad and I… I think he wanted to tell me something important.”

Jim doesn’t know what to say. He understands, suddenly, why his dad sits and chats to him for hours before leaving for a deployment. Why the man makes sure to always leave with a kiss goodbye and all arguments forgiven, never leaving angry or upset. He makes a little noise, encouraging Tony to keep talking.

“I just wanted a couple of days to relax,” Tony continues, a whine creeping into his voice. “Just, like, two days to chill out and get a tan. Wasn’t good enough. But he said it like there was something important I needed to know.”

He lets out a little hiccup-sob, but his eyes are still dry and glassy. “I need to know. It’s so dumb, but he’s just, he’s gone now and I feel like... I feel like, if I’d listened, he wouldn’t be.”

Tears finally well in his eyes and begin to slide down his cheeks, catching on his nose.

“And Mom,” he sobs. “I miss her so much already. Why her, too? It’s not fair!”

Jim feels stupidly, absurdly guilty that he has both parents, that his mom answered the phone when he called to reassure her that he arrived in New York safely. He awkwardly strokes Tony’s back as the teen cries into the pillow. He has no idea what he’s doing, no idea how to help Tony get through this. He wants his mom, the one he feels simultaneously guilty and relieved to still have, because Roberta Rhodes is so much better at dealing with all of this than he is.

Finally, after what feels like forever, Tony’s sobbing works its way into shuddering breaths, and then those even out into the deep breathing of sleep. Jim eases himself off the bed and tiptoes out the room. He pauses at the door to make sure Tony didn’t stir, but he seems dead to the world, sleeping the dreamless sleep of the truly exhausted.

Jim gathers his shoes and gently closes the door. In the guest room, he lies, still fully clothed, on the bed and stares out the window at the bright morning sky. His eyes burn with exhaustion and his gut churns with grief and guilt and apprehension, he needs to sleep for at least six hours. Instead he takes off his watch and sets the timer for 90 minutes, deliberately _not_ thinking about how he felt when he donned the Casio G-Shock for the first time, a gift from his parents for getting into MIT. Only months before he met Tony, actually.

He doesn’t bother getting undressed or getting under the covers, just sits the watch next to his pillow and closes his eyes. He’s dreading opening them again, dreading how long the day is going to be after so little sleep. He wishes, just for a brief moment before he’s disgusted with his own selfishness, that he could sleep all day. He won’t, though. He’ll get up and be there for Tony, to provide moral support, hugs, fetch cups of coffee, whatever he needs.

Because that’s what best friends are for.


End file.
